Lennox
“How long are you going to hide out here?” Bobby asks as he flips on the OPEN light, triggering all the neon lights on the outside windows to blink on.
I shrug. “Not sure.”
Maybe forever.
I don’t say that though because Bobby’s been trying to tell me for the past week that I’ve seemingly overstayed my welcome.
Not that I was really welcomed in the first place. I know he doesn’t mind my presence, but he doesn’t agree with the reason I’m here.
“It won’t be much longer if you pull a stunt like you did last night,” he threatens, but there’s no bite behind it.
“He was drunk and was spitting nasty comments to Amelia all night, reaching over the bar to grab her was the final straw for me, and I know it was for you, too,” I reply, as I dry the last of the clean beer steins.
“Grabbing him by the scruff and escorting him out the door would have been sufficient, mate. Punching him in the face was unnecessary.”
I shrug again.
“I get you’re going through some shit, but you have to promise me you won’t start fights or punch the patrons.
My bar can’t take that kind of negative publicity.
” He’s growing increasingly despondent. I can tell, not only by his tone but his body language as well, and I know I’m skating on thin ice here.
I nod, letting out a long breath. My current emotional state isn’t handling anything with grace and my temper is taking it out on the first person who pisses me off. But, he’s right.
“I promise.”
He just nods back as he turns around, heading toward the back of the bar. “I’m going to finish the banking from last night before we get busy.”
“Have fun,” I call out because I know that’s his least favorite part about running a bar.
He flips me his middle finger without looking back and goes down the back hallway, shutting the door.
I start wiping off the counters and lose myself in my thoughts like I have all week.
My social media accounts are quiet because I disabled all of them. I was getting more threats and nasty messages than I was getting notifications from my friends, so it just wasn’t worth checking anymore.
Plus, the temptation to message Jace was too high.
I miss the hell out of him and I hate myself for it.
Especially when he probably isn’t giving me a second thought. Well, he might be considering he probably lost even more of his rights to his mother and wouldn’t be able to answer, even if I did reach out.
But I’m not and I can’t.
I pick up a tray of clean glasses and head to the storage room where they reside until we need them later when our dishwasher can’t keep up with the flow of drinks.
The bar opens at 4:00 p.m. on Saturday afternoons, earlier than the rest of the week but, still, hardly anyone ever comes in so it gives us time to prep the bar.
Naturally I’m shocked when the bell on the door chimes as I step into the storage room.
“Be right with you, mate!” I call out blindly as I place the mugs on the shelf.
When I turn, glancing through the bar, I stop dead in the doorway—the sight making my heart drop to my stomach.
Tortured cerulean blue eyes are locked on me like a spotlight. The same ocean blue ones that I got lost in during every scene we filmed, during every night we spent sneaking away together.
The same ones that looked down on me when he saw that article and without a second thought I’m warped back into the anger I felt when he turned his back on me.
I make my way through the tables, step behind the bar and grab a napkin, tossing it on the countertop, ignoring the fact that it’s Jace Wilder standing just feet away from me.
“What can I get you, mate?” I say, impersonally.
He blinks, his gaze turning to the floor but forces a step toward me, and another until he takes a seat on a barstool.
I avoid his gaze, mindlessly cleaning—even though it’s already clean—as I sneak a glimpse in my periphery, taking in his disheveled look.
For the first time, his signature blond hair is not freshly cut. A few strands stray off to the sides like he’s ran his hands through it too many times to tame. He’s not in his usual clean cut button up or polo, instead wearing a plain green hoodie that somehow looks just as good on him.
He doesn’t say anything, just keeps his gaze locked on me as I move behind the bar and I can’t fucking stand it.
“You look like shit.”
He scoffs but nods agreeable as he looks down at himself.
A few moments pass in silence and I finally ask, “What are you doing here?”
He looks out the window, taking in the scene behind us, then turns back to me as he sucks in a deep breath.
“I’ve been in London for a week looking for you.”
I raise an amused brow and scoff.
“You blocked me on socials and I had to search for some old articles with the name of this bar in it.”
“I didn’t block you. I deleted them,” I spit out and I’m not sure why I’m telling him. It was probably better if he thought I specifically blocked him.
“How’s it going with the Wings of Hope Foundation stuff?” he asks cautiously.
“Great. I got a decent all-cash offer for my flat and we closed escrow in three days. Paid them off this morning.”
He returns a surprised look. “Wow, that was fast.”
“Yep.” I nod slowly, still frustrated that it had to come to that. That was my first real home. Something I bought with my own money after years of couch hopping or renting random rooms.
“I met your realtor. He was interesting,” Jace admits and I finally snap a look over at him.
“When?”
“I went to your apartment…after the hearing. He was there getting it ready for market.”
A million questions run through my mind at the same time but I ask the obvious one.
“Why?”
“The judge ruled in my favor. I’m not bound by the conservatorship and my mother got what was coming to her,” he says, as a tiny smirk ticks the corner of his mouth.
Now a billion more confused questions fly in and out of my thoughts. I’m relieved for him, so fucking happy that I actually huff out a laugh but the irritation still hasn’t subsided.
An internal battle wages inside me, of wanting to scream with excitement and still kick the barstool out from underneath him.
I did try and look up the details but there was nothing reported on it, so I assumed even though the article—I supposedly blew the whistle on—went public, the case was still completely closed.
“How?”
He answers simply, factually, like in all the things Jace does. Almost like it’s one of his standard interviews.
“My father. He stood before the judge, told him—” He pauses, taking in a long breath then says, “He overheard my mother paying off Chatterbox to post the article about my conservatorship under the guise of you.”
I falter in my step and stop wiping off the counter.
“Is that right?” I say, pinning him with a glare.
He nods, his eyes full of sorrow and dare I say guilt, as he swallows thickly. His annoying pronounced Adam’s apple bobs and I hate how much I recall the memory of it when I would lick the column of his neck.
“She violated the NDA and turns out, she bought a bunch of properties with my money that she hid under dummy corporations.”
I continue scrubbing the counter, slightly more aggressively than before and I just hum.
“I’m sorry, Lennox.”
His words mean nothing to me with what his impulsive actions said.
“You put me in the same category as everyone else, Jace. You didn’t even give me a chance.”
“I know. It was stupid. I was stupid. I panicked.”
“Okay.” I lift a shoulder acting indifferent. I need to end this conversation. “Did you say what you came to say?” I tilt my head toward the door.
He looks at it with trepidation. He shakes his head.
“When are you coming back?”
I drop my shoulders, my head follows as I stop and turn to him.
“I’m not coming back.” His eyes widen and his breathing picks up.
“I lost my upcoming movie contracts with the fundraiser scandal and whatever decent reputation I had is shot to shit. Hollywood and I were never meant to be,” I chuckle sarcastically, softening my voice, “nothing I did during that time mattered.”
My eyes raise to meet his and he’s hurting. For me, for him, who knows. But, I can see it in the lack of color in his eyes and the way his lips thin how hard it is for him to hear my words. His body tenses and he fidgets in his seat with discomfort and awkwardness.
I stand taller, feigning every bit of confidence I have left because I can’t get hurt like that again. He doesn’t trust me and I don’t know if his past circumstances will ever let him truly trust anyone.
“Don’t do this—”
“You fucking broke me!” I scream, my voice unrelenting as I say everything I’ve bottled up.
“Hollywood is fucked, it’ll turn its back on you in a split second, it’s always been that way, that’s expected.
But you, you fucking broke me, Jace. Anyone can think I stole that money, I don’t give a shit about that.
But you, the way you looked at me, so disgusted, so disappointed, thinking I would betray you like that.
You didn’t even consider the chance it wasn’t me. ”
It physically pains me to see him, to watch the range of emotion his eyes flicker through as he absorbs my words and I know I don’t have the strength to keep doing this. I place my hand on the countertop, tapping it with my knuckles. “Good luck at the Silver Screen Awards, mate.”
And with that, I walk away.